I Just Want Peace
by TheNameIsHolmesSherlockHolmes
Summary: John is dealing with Sherlock's death in his own way, when one day he finds himself somewhere he wished he'd never have to return to. Strong T for dark themes and strong angst. Potential triggers and suicidal thoughts. You have been warned.


**A/N: Warning, potential triggers in suicidal thoughts. No slash. Just angst. And a lot of it.  
I do not own Sherlock etc. BBC/ACD do.**

* * *

His mind was rolling along with the inner turmoil. Sherlock wasn't dead. Couldn't be dead. He was Sherlock. The Sherlock. World's only Consulting Detective. The only man smarter than him was Mycroft. He just couldn't be dead.  
John sat solemnly at the road side, feet sitting in the gutter as rain poured down around him and cars and taxis continued to drive by without a care in the world. Or at least, not for the lonely man feeling sorry for himself. Everywhere he looked life carried on. Mothers hustled their children into the nearest shops to take shelter, businessmen argued into their phones whilst juggling an umbrella, a suitcase and a Starbuck's cappuccino. Never before had John felt so alone.

Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours and hours eventually turned into days. Mrs Hudson was always at the door; ready to give him a parting kiss on the cheek -tears staining her face the moment he stepped out of 221B- ready with open arms for when he returned. As if making it through another day was some huge achievement. Which for John it was. Only once before had he known such loneliness. And once before he'd ended up in hospital hooked up to multiple needles and a life support machine. Currently that place was looking better and better every moment.

For the first few weeks Greg would phone, just to see how he was doing, if he wanted to go down the pub for a pint, if he wanted to go see that new Star Trek movie. The answer was always 'no'. Some days the DI would pop round to 221B.

"Social interaction," he'd say, "You haven't spoken to anyone since Saturday, not even Mrs Hudson."

"So?"

"It's Wednesday."

John went to update his blog every other day. Each time he'd type the same thing in. Then delete it and shut the laptop. He still made two cups of coffee. Leaving both to go cold when he realised. Eventually the milk ran out, yet John continued to make coffee, as if his life depended on this routine. This timed schedule. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Like a timed bomb. Ready to explode any second.  
The nightmares had returned. Mondays he'd dream of Afghanistan. The nightmare heat. Children's screams. Mother's pleas in foreign languages for him to save their husbands when there was nothing left to do. John wondered what Sherlock's last thoughts were. _Please God, let me live.  
_Tuesdays he'd dream of when they first met. If Sherlock would have actually taken that pill had he not been there. Had he not shot the cabbie. Colours swirled and the resolution of the dream would change. The lighter-gun turned out to be real. Both pills were poisoned. Sherlock chose the wrong one. The cabbie was a bomber.  
The rest of the week John dreamt on and off of the various cases they'd worked on. Each proving a fatal outcome for the genius detective. Each causing John to wake up as a terrified, shivering pool of sweat.

27th August, 2014. Not a particularly important date. At least, not to John. And that's what made it perfect. Nothing to do. No one to see. He limped down the stairs of the now empty flat, Mrs Hudson having been admitted to St. Bart's with a very severe case of osteoporosis after falling down whilst trying to bring him a cup of tea. He tidied the flat first. Books on their shelves, knives and forks away, mugs all washed and dried. His bed had been made, the keys were back under the doormat and his SIG in his back pocket. John blindly made his way out of the front door and hobbled along Baker Street. Feet guiding him to where ever he was heading, the blonde-haired man didn't look up once. Not even when he bashed into a familiar stranger.  
"John!"  
Ignored. He ploughed on. The pain in his leg was back. He'd forgotten his cane, but remembered his wallet. Feeling overwhelmed in his army jacket, the doctor hailed a cab and told the driver where it was he was headed.  
Half an hour, many wrong-turns and 30-minutes-of-an-awkward-attempt-at-small-chat-by-the-driver later they'd arrived at the swimming pool where Carl Powers died and where John Watson had been held hostage a few years previously. He never noticed the silver haired man watching from the taxi that pulled up fifty feet down the road. Lead filled legs walked up to the door of the now abandoned swimming pool - the Carl Powers case had been resurrected and with the help of an anonymous benefactor John managed to get Lestrade the funding to prove Sherlock's botulinim-eczema cream theory, which caused the swimming pool to be shut down due to negative press over the security of the place even though it was not their fault. However the missing shoes scandal contributed greatly and they blew out under the pressure.

A few sharp bangs on the door with the butt of the SIG and John had gained entrance to the chlorine infested halls. Footsteps echoed all around him, his heart beats loud enough that it was a wonder they didn't echo also. He traced the steps he was sure Moriarty had taken to drag him there, when he came across another set of doors. He swung them open once, testing the creaks they made which proved they'd been out of use for at least a year, and caught sight of an expanse of green-algae ridden water. Tentative steps betrayed his nerves as the memories flooded back to him. John gave into temptation, fell to his knees and wept. He dragged himself over to the places they'd stood. Remembering the flood of panic when that red light had shifted to Sherlock and the dead eyes that bore into him, as if they knew his deepest darkest secrets. Just daring him. Egging him on. Encouraging him. Do it.

John felt for his pocket. Tears clouded his eyes as his hand came into contact with metal. Warm, metallic metal. He'd half-expected it to be cold. The army doctor turned it over in his hands, once, twice, three times, before cocking it in his right hand and placing it to his temple.

* * *

John had never been religious. He never went to church, nor did he ever find himself praying to a god that he didn't believe in. Except for one instance when all he could feel was the shrapnel embedded in his shoulder and the cries of the wounded around him.

* * *

"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name... I don't know what I'm doing. Please, just, help me find peace. I just want this torment to end." Jacket beginning to feel heavy John felt his hand preparing to clench. To pull the trigger. When he felt another warm hand on top of his own. He hadn't heard the footsteps and he allowed the pressure of this mystery hand - male judging by the size, unmarried for some time though there is still the tan line there - to guide the gun away from his temple. The male presence stepped round and knelt in front of John. Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. Greg. John stared unblinking, unmoving at the DI. Motionless Greg stared defeatedly back, questioning in his frown but comfort and acceptance in his eyes. With one sob filled motion John slumped forward and clung to Greg as if his life depended on it - which it did. And the inspector knelt there, clutching a man who'd seen far to much, both craving the comfort of the other but neither willing to admit it.


End file.
